Mr. Penrose was the uncle of Mary and Winnie, their mother's only
brother. Mrs. Seton had come from Liverpool originally, and though
herself very "nice," had not been, according to Aunt Agatha's opinion,
"of a nice class." And her brother shared the evil conditions, without
sharing the good. He was of his class, soul and body, and it was not a
nice class--and, to tell the truth, his nieces had been brought up to
ignore rather than to take any pleasure in him. He was not a man out of
whom, under the best circumstances, much satisfaction could be got. He
was one of the men who always turn up when something about money is
going on in the house. He had had to do with all the wills and
settlements in the family, though they were of a very limited
description; but Mr. Penrose did not despise small things, and was of
opinion, that even if you had only a hundred pounds; you ought to know
all about it, and how to take care of it. And he had once been very kind
to Aunt Agatha, who was always defective in her arithmetic, and who, in
earlier days, while she still thought of a possible change in her
condition, had gone beyond the just limit of her income, and got into
difficulties. Mr. Penrose had interfered at that period, and had been
very kind, and set her straight, and had given her a very telling
address upon the value of money; and though Miss Seton was not one of
the people who take a favour as an injury, still she could have forgiven
him a great many ill turns sooner than that good one. He had been very
kind to her, and had ruffled all her soft plumes, and rushed up against
her at all her tender points; and the very sound of his name was a
lively irritant to Aunt Agatha. But he had to be acquainted with
Winnie's engagement, and when he received the information, he lost no
time in coming to see about it. He was a large, portly, well-to-do man,
with one of his hands always in his pocket, and seemed somehow to
breathe money, and to have no ideas which did not centre in it; and yet
he had a good many ideas, and was a clever man in his way. With him, as
with many people in the world, there was one thing needful, and that one
thing was money. He thought it was a duty to possess something--a duty
which a man owed absolutely to himself, and to all who belonged to
him--and if he did not acquit himself well on this point, he was, in
Mr. Penrose's opinion, a very indifferent sort of person. There is
something immoral to most people in the fact of being poor, but to Mr.
Penrose it was a crime. He was very well off himself, but he was not a
man to communicate of his goods as he did of his advice; and then he had
himself a family, and could not be expected to give anything except
advice to his nieces--and as for that one good thing, it was at their
command in the most liberal way. He came to the Cottage, which was so
especially a lady's house, and pervaded the whole place with his large
male person, diffusing through it that moral fragrance which still
betrays the Englishman, the man of business, the Liverpool man, wherever
he may happen to bless the earth. Perhaps in that sweet-smelling dainty
place, the perfume which breathed from Mr. Penrose told more decidedly
than in the common air. As soon as you went in at the garden-gate you
became sensible that the atmosphere was changed, and that a Man was
there. Perhaps it may be thought that the presence of a man in Aunt
Agatha's maiden bower was not what might be called strictly proper, and
Miss Seton herself had doubts on the subject; but then, Mr. Penrose
never asked for any invitation, and it would have been very difficult to
turn him out; and Mary was there, who at least was a married lady. He
came without any invitation, and asked which was his room as if it had
been his own house--and he complained of what he called "the smell" of
the roses, and declared he would tear down all the sickly jasmine from
the side of the house if it belonged to him. All this Miss Seton endured
silently, feeling it her duty, for Winnie's sake, to keep all her
connexions in good humour; but the poor lady suffered terribly under the
process, as everybody could see.
"I hope it is only a conditional sort of engagement," Mr. Penrose said,
after he had made himself comfortable, and had had a good dinner, and
came into the drawing-room the first evening. The lovers had seized the
opportunity to escape to Kirtell-side, and Mary was with her boys in the
garden, and poor Aunt Agatha, a martyr of civility, was seated alone,
awaiting the reappearance of her guest, and smiling upon him with
anxious politeness. He threw himself into the largest and most solid
chair he could find, and spread himself, as it seemed, all over the
room--a Man, coarse and undisguised, in that soft feminine paradise.
Poor Sir Edward's graceful presence, and the elegant figure of Captain
Percival, made no such impression. "I hope you have not settled it all
without consulting anybody. To be sure, that don't matter very much; but
I know you ladies have a summary way of settling such affairs."
"Indeed, I--I am afraid--I--I hope--it is all settled," said Aunt
Agatha, with tremulous dignity. "It is not as if there was a great deal
of money to settle. They are not--not rich, you know," she added,
nervously. This was the chief thing to tell, and she was anxious to get
it over at once.
"Not rich?" said Mr. Penrose. "No, I suppose not. A rich fellow would
not have been such a fool as to entangle himself with Winnie, who has
only her pretty face; but he has something, of course. The first thing
to ascertain is, what they will have to live on, and what he can settle
upon her. I suppose you have not let it go so far without having a kind
of idea on these points?"
"Oh, yes," said Aunt Agatha, with a very poor pretence at composure;
"oh, yes, Mr. Penrose, that is all quite right. He has very nice
expectations. I have always heard that Mrs. Percival had a charming
little property; and Sir Edward is his godfather, and very fond of him.
You will see it will come all right about that."
"Yes," said Mr. Penrose, who was nursing one of his legs--a colossal
member, nearly as big as his hostess--in a meditative way, "I hope it
will when _I_ come to look into it. But we must have something more than
expectations. What has he of his own?--and what do his mother and Sir
Edward mean to do for him? We must have it in pounds, shillings, and
pence, or he shan't have Winnie. It is best that he should make up his
mind about that."
Aunt Agatha drew a frightened, panting breath; but she did not say
anything. She had known what she would have to brave, and she was aware
that Winnie would not brave it, and that to prevent a breach with her
darling's only rich relation, it was necessary and expedient as long as
she was alone to have it all out.
"Let me see," said Mr. Penrose, "you told me what he was in your
letter--Captain, ain't he? As for his pay, that don't count. Let us go
systematically to work if we are to do any good. I know ladies are very
vague about business matters, but still you must know something. What
sort of a fellow is he, and what has he got of his own?"
"Oh, he is very nice," cried Aunt Agatha, consoled to find a question
she could answer; "very, very nice. I do think you will like him very
much; such a fine young fellow, and with what you gentlemen call no
nonsense about him," said the anxious woman; "and with _excellent_
connexions," she added, faltering again, for her enthusiasm awoke no
answer in Mr. Penrose's face.
"My dear Miss Agatha," he said in his offensive way--and he always
called her Miss Agatha, which was very trying to her feelings--"you need
not take the trouble to assure me that a handsome young fellow who pays
her a little attention, is always very nice to a lady. I was not asking
whether he was nice; I was asking what were his means--which is a very
much more important part of the subject, though you may not think so,"
Mr. Penrose added. "A charming little house like this, for instance,
where you can have everything within yourself, and can live on honey and
dew I suppose, may be kept on nothing--though you and I, to be sure,
know a little different----"
"Mr. Penrose," said Aunt Agatha, trembling with indignation, "if you
mean that the dinner was not particular enough----"
"It was a charming little dinner," said Mr. Penrose, "just what it ought
to have been. Nothing could have been nicer than that white soup; and I
think I am a judge. I was speaking of something to live on; a pretty
house like this, I was saying, is not an analogous case. You have
everything within yourself--eggs, and vegetables, and fruit, and your
butter and milk so cheap. I wish we could get it like that in Liverpool;
and--pardon me--no increase of family likely, you know."
"My niece Mary and her three children have come to the Cottage since you
were last here, Mr. Penrose," said Aunt Agatha, with a blush of shame
and displeasure. "It was the only house of all her relations that she
could come to with any comfort, poor dear--perhaps you don't call that
an increase of family; and as for the milk and butter----"
"She must pay you board," said Mr. Penrose, decisively; "there can be no
question about that; your little money has not always been enough for
yourself, as we both know. But all this is merely an illustration I was
giving. It has nothing to do with the main subject. If these young
people marry, my dear Miss Agatha, their family may be increased by
inmates who will pay no board."
This was what he had the assurance to say to an unmarried lady in her
own house--and to laugh and chuckle at it afterwards, as if he thought
it a capital joke. Aunt Agatha was struck dumb with horror and
indignation. Such eventualities might indeed, perhaps must, be discussed
by the lawyers where there are settlements to make; but to talk of them
to a maiden lady when alone, was enough to make her drop through the
very floor with consternation. She made no attempt to answer, but she
did succeed in keeping her seat, and to a certain extent her
self-possession, for Winnie's sake.
"It is a different sort of thing altogether," said the family adviser.
"Things may be kept square in a quiet lady's house--though even that is
not always the case, as we are both aware; but two young married people,
who are just as likely as not to be extravagant and all that---- If he
has not something to settle on her, I don't see how I can have anything
to do with it," Mr. Penrose continued; "and you will not answer me as to
what he has of his own."
"He has his--his pay," said poor Aunt Agatha. "I am told it is a great
deal better than it used to be; and he has, I think, some--some money in
the Funds. I am sure he will be glad to settle that on Winnie; and then
his mother, and Sir Edward. I have no doubt myself, though really they
are too young to marry, that they will do very well on the whole."
"Do you know what living means, Miss Agatha?" asked Mr. Penrose,
solemnly, "when you can speak in this loose way? Butchers' bills are not
so vague as your statements, I can tell you; and a pretty girl like that
ought to do very well, even though she has no money. It is not _her_
fault, poor thing," the rich uncle added, with momentary compassion; and
then he asked, abruptly, "What will Sir Edward do for them?" as if he
had presented a pistol at his companion's head.
"Oh, Mr. Penrose!" cried Aunt Agatha, forgetting all her policy, and
what she had just said. "Surely, surely, you would not like them to
calculate upon Sir Edward! He is not even a relation. He is only
Edward's godfather. I would not have him applied to, not for the world."
"Then what have you been talking to me all this while about?" cried Mr.
Penrose, with a look and sense of outraged virtue. And Aunt Agatha,
seeing how she had betrayed her own position, and weary of the contest,
and driven to her wits' end, gave way and cried a little--which at that
moment, vexed, worried, and mortified as she was, was all she could do.
And then Mr. Penrose got up and walked away, whistling audibly, through
the open window, into the garden, leaving the chintz cover on his chair
so crumpled up and loosened out of all its corners, that you could have
told a mile off that a man had been there. What he left behind him was
not that subtle agreeable suggestion of his presence which hung around
the footsteps of young Percival, or even of Sir Edward, but something
that felt half like an insult to the feminine inhabitants--a
disagreeable assertion of another kind of creature who thought himself
superior to them--which was an opinion which they did not in the least
share, having no illusions so far as he went. Aunt Agatha sank back into
her chair with a sense of relief, which she afterwards felt she ought
not to have entertained. She had no right to such a feeling, for she had
done no good; and instead of diverting the common enemy from an attack
upon Winnie or her lover, had actually roused and whetted him, and made
him more likely than ever to rush at those young victims, as soon as
ever he should have the chance. But notwithstanding, for the moment to
be rid of him, and able to draw breath a little, and dry her incipient
tears, and put the cover straight upon that ill-used chair, did her
good. She drew a long breath, poor soul, and felt the ease and comfort
of being left to herself; even though next moment she might have to
brace herself up and collect all her faculties, and face the adversary
again.
But in the meantime he had gone out to the garden, and was standing by
Mary's side, with his hand in his pocket. He was telling Mary that he
had come out in despair to her, to see if she knew anything about this
sad business--since he found her Aunt Agatha quite as great a fool about
business matters as she always was. He wanted to know if she, who knew
what was what, could give him any sort of a reasonable idea about this
young fellow whom Winnie wanted to marry--which was as difficult a
question for Mrs. Ochterlony as it had been for Miss Seton. And then in
the midst of the conversation the two culprits themselves appeared, as
careless about the inquiring uncle as they were about the subject of his
anxiety. Winnie, who was not given to the reticences practised by her
aunt and her sister, had taken care to convey a very clear idea of her
Uncle Penrose, and her own opinion of him, to the mind of Percival. He
was from Liverpool, and not "of a nice class." He was not Winnie's
guardian, nor had he any legal control over her; and in these
circumstances it did not seem by any means necessary to either of the
young people to show any undue attention to his desires, or be disturbed
by his interference; for neither of them had been brought up to be
dutiful to all the claims of nature, like their seniors. "Go away
directly, that he may not have any chance of attacking you," Winnie had
said to her lover; for though she was not self-denying or unselfish to
speak of, she could be so where Percival was concerned. "We can manage
him among us," she added, with a laugh--for she had no doubt of the
cooperation of both her aunt and sister, in the case of Uncle Penrose.
And in obedience to this arrangement, Captain Percival did nothing but
take off his hat in honour of Mary, and say half a dozen words of the
most ordinary salutation to the stranger before he went away. And then
Winnie came in, and came to her sister's side, and stood facing Mr.
Penrose, in all the triumph and glory of her youth. She was beautiful,
or would be beautiful, everybody had long allowed; but she had still
retained a certain girlish meagreness up to a very recent date. Now all
that had changed, like everything else; she had expanded, it appeared,
like her heart expanded and was satisfied--everything about her looked
rounder, fuller, and more magnificent. She came and stood before the
Liverpool uncle, who was a man of business, and thinking of no such
vanities, and struck him dumb with her splendour. He could talk as he
liked to Aunt Agatha, or even to Mary in her widow's cap, but this
radiant creature, all glowing with love and happiness, took away his
breath. Perhaps it was then, for the first time in his life, that Mr.
Penrose actually realized that there was something in the world for
which a man might even get to be indifferent about the balance at his
banker's. He gave an involuntary gasp; and though up to this moment he
had thought of Winnie only as a child, he now drew back before her, and
stopped whistling, and took his hand out of his pocket, which perhaps
was as decided an act of homage as it was in him to pay.
But of course such a manifestation could not last. After another moment
he gave a "humph" as he looked at her, and then his self-possession came
back. "So that was your Captain, I suppose?" he said.
"Yes, uncle, that was my Captain," said the dauntless Winnie, "and I
hope you approve of him; though it does not matter if you don't, for you
know it is all settled, and nobody except my aunt and his mother has any
right to say a word."
"If his mother is as wise a judge as your aunt----" said Mr. Penrose;
but yet all the same, Winnie's boldness imposed upon him a little. It
was impossible to imagine that a grand creature like this, who was not
pale nor sentimental, nor of Agatha Seton's kind, could contemplate with
such satisfaction any Captain who had asked her to marry him upon
nothing a year.
"That is all very fine," Mr. Penrose added, taking courage; "you can
make your choice as you please, but it is my business to look after the
money. If you and your children come to me starving, twenty years hence
and ask how I could possibly let you marry such a----"
"Do you think you will be living in twenty years, Uncle Penrose?" said
Winnie. "I know you are a great deal older than Aunt Agatha;--but if you
are, we will not come, I promise you. We shall keep our starvation to
ourselves."
"I can't tell how old your Aunt Agatha is," said Mr. Penrose, with
natural offence; "and you must know, Miss Winnie, that this is not how
you should talk to me."
"Very well, uncle," said the daring girl; "but neither is your way the
way to talk to me. You know I have made up my mind, and that everything
is settled, and that it does not matter the least to me if Edward was a
beggar; and you come here with your money, as if that was the only thing
to be thought of. What do I care about money?--and you might try till
the end of the world, and you never would break it off," she cried,
flashing into a brilliant glow of passion and vehemence such as Mr.
Penrose did not understand. He had expected to have a great deal of
difficulty, but he had never expected to be defied after this fashion;
and the wildness of her womanish folly made the good man sad.
"You silly girl!" he said, with profound pathos, "if you only knew what
nonsense you were speaking. There is nobody in this world but cares
about money; you can do nothing without it, and marry least of all. And
you speak to me with such an example before your eyes; look at your
sister Mary, how she has come with all those helpless children to be,
most likely, a burden on her friends----"
"Uncle Penrose!" cried Winnie, putting up her two beautiful hands to
stop his mouth; but Mr. Penrose was as plain-spoken as Winnie herself
was, though in a different way.
"I know perfectly well she can hear me," he said, "and she ought to hear
me, and to read you a lesson. If Mary had been a sensible girl, and had
married a man who could make proper settlements upon her, and make a
provision for his family, do you think she would have required to come
here to seek a shelter--do you think----"
"Oh, Mary, he is crazy; don't mind him!" cried Winnie, forgetting for
the moment all about her own affairs, and clinging to her sister in real
distress.
And then it was Mrs. Ochterlony's turn to speak.
"I did not come to seek a shelter," she said; "though I know they would
have given it me all the same. I came to seek love and kindness, uncle,
which you cannot buy with money: and if there was nothing more than want
of money between Winnie and Captain Percival----"
"Mary!" cried Winnie, impetuously, "go in and don't say any more. You
shall not be insulted while I am here; but don't say anything about
Edward. Leave me to have it out with Uncle Penrose, and go away."
And somehow Mary obeyed. She would not have done it a month ago; but she
was wearied of contention, and broken in spirit, and, instead of
standing still and defending herself, she withdrew from the two
belligerents, who were both so ready to turn their arms against her, and
went away. She went to the nursery, which was deserted; for her boys
were still outside in the lingering daylight. None of them were able to
advise, or even to sympathize with their mother. They could give her
their childish love, but nothing else in the world. The others had all
some one to consult, some one to refer to, but Mary was alone. Her heart
beat dull and low, with no vehement offence at the bitter words she had
just heard, but with a heavy despondency and sense of solitude, which
her very attitude showed--for she did not sit down, or lie down, or try
to find any fictitious support, but stood up by the vacant fire-place
with her eyes fixed upon nothing, holding unconsciously the little chain
which secured her watch, and letting its beads drop one by one from her
fingers. "Mary has come home to be a burden on her friends," said Uncle
Penrose. She did not resent it wildly, as she might have done some time
before, but pondered with wondering pain and a dull sense of
hopelessness. How did it happen that she, of all women, had come to such
a position? what correspondence was there between that and all her past?
and what was the future to be? which, even now, she could make no
spasmodic changes in, but must accept and endure. This was how Mary's
mind was employed, while Winnie, reckless and wilful, defied Uncle
Penrose in the garden. For the time, the power of defying any one seemed
to have died out of Mary's breast.